


Springtide and Moonlight

by Nyanoka



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Study, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Mentions of Ableism, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22645984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Emotions and desires are rather foreign concepts for Byleth.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	Springtide and Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> This is rather rushed. Please forgive me on that, but this was written partially because of spite. Or rather the subject matter was chosen because of spite, and I propelled this to the top of my "To-Write" list because of that. I've always planned to write Ashe/M!Byleth, but the original topic was rather different. It wasn't explicit or set in the Academy Phase for example. 
> 
> Though, I am not one to write something simply to titillate—it simply isn't in my nature sadly—so I ended up stapling in a character study with Academy Outfit!Byleth as well.

He is not quite sure how these sorts of acts were supposed to go. It is not a fault in his education—Jeralt, despite his awkwardness, had explained the nuances of sex and procreation well enough when he had reached puberty—but in the emotions and bodily reactions that his own actions inspire.

Before the monastery, he had never been one to feel any sort of emotion or attraction—sexual or otherwise. It had not been a concern for him naturally. How could something be worrying if one had never experienced it? Instead, he had merely imitated it—a smile in what he hopes is a replica of his father’s, the slight shake of the back and chest as he laughs as one of the others in his father’s group did, and so forth.

It is in how he carries himself—light-footed yet unnatural—an insincere wisp of a human being rather than a genuine piece. His lips curve into smiles and into frowns, and the muscles move as he commands, but it—the sincerity that marks a human being—never quite reaches his eyes. He studies the others, but he just cannot quite reproduce it correctly.

It is difficult to imitate something that is inherited—or perhaps given—upon conception, something that makes one so intrinsically human.

Whether it is joy or sorrow, none of his expressions quite fit as they should upon a human face. It is as if someone had scraped away everything important—the flesh, the muscle, the arteries and the veins—and substituted it with porcelain or perhaps with one of the masks he had seen once when Jeralt had taken them to the theater. He had only seen them in passing, and the visit had been for a job of course, but the sentiment remains the same, nonetheless.

He is as the masks with their perpetual frowns and with their perpetual grins. But perhaps even then, they are _more_ than him. They were designed as such; he is not.

He is human, and yet, he cannot feel. He cannot smile as the others can nor can he weep as they do. He has tried, of course, but the tears never seemed flowed, not from sorrow and not from pain—self-induced or otherwise.

Naturally, his father had known of his trickery—familial familiarity bred that sort of knowledge—but he had played along, both for himself and for Byleth. What could he have done otherwise? Byleth doubts that Jeralt had willingly chosen to have a dull-witted child—for that is what he is by his own admission—but he has raised one.

For that, Byleth will always be grateful. He had not been abandoned in the gutters or in the woods as some of the older stories went or as he himself had seen on their travels. He remembers the children—eyes lacking in that particular light and limbs gangly and slow-moving—as they begged on the streets. He remembers how he had placed both coins and bits of wrapped hard candy in their hands, and how their fingers closed around them—tight and paranoid.

Unsurprising.

Even in their dimness, they understood the rules of survival.

The streets are harsh, but the people are harsher still. Even among their own, theft and betrayal are concerns. Poverty and loneliness simply bred those traits.

But still, even if he could not feel, he understands what could have been. He is simple in some senses, but he is not entirely hopeless.

Therefore, it had come as a surprise when he had felt something—a light sense of pleasure—after the Blue Lions had triumphed over the other two Houses in their practice bout. It had been a foreign sensation—one that he had initially assumed was the onset of a sickness—but it had come again and again until he could no longer deny it.

It comes when Felix, less resentful than during their initial encounter, invites him to training, and when Dedue helps him in the greenhouse. It comes when Mercedes and Annette bake him sweets. It comes during the hours he spends with Ingrid and Dimitri in the dining hall.

It comes even during the tea times he has with Sylvain and Lorenz and the moments when Linhardt pesters him for his Crest research.

Perhaps, they should have brought him only joy, but instead, the feelings had brought forth both elation and fear. Those small spurts of happiness—true happiness in its brightness and not apathy or debatably contentment—proved that he was not as slow-witted as he had presumed, but still, like with many things, uncertainty brought upon his heart a sense of hesitation.

Had it simply been a fluke? A temporary state of being? There is a fear of loss, of losing something that confirms that he is innately human and not some spirit masquerading as one. He has heard the stories—wives’ tales and fairy tales meant to chew the fat or perhaps scare the children into behaving—and he worries (as much as he could anyway).

It is easier to forego something when one has never experienced it.

But now, he fears.

He does not want to return to being damaged. He does not know if his heart and his mind could handle it.

Thus perhaps, that is why he had accepted Ashe’s affections so freely despite their social positions. He is dull in some senses, but he can still understand some societal conventions and societal expectations.

A relationship between a professor and a student is not one that is readily accepted by most.

It is not to say that Ashe is unattractive, however. Even with his lack of experience, he understands the boyish charm that the other held. He has working eyes and working ears, and he has heard the girls chatter and gossip before.

But still, that does not explain his own inclinations. If it had only been emotions and their continued state that he desires, why had he not propositioned one of the other students or perhaps even one of the townsfolk? Much like with Ashe’s own popularity, Byleth understands his own, even if he rarely comments upon it.

Aloof, charming, attractive.

He has heard those words and more—some formulaically romantic and others as vulgar as the books Sylvain attempts to hide—from both men and women in passing.

However, none of them elicit the same response that Ashe does. Similarly, none of his other students provoke the same feelings—the cliché flutter of his heart, akin to swan song, and the slight dip as he falls and drowns in springtide and moonlight.

When he thinks of them, his thoughts elicit nothing except fond warmth and a still-unfamiliar sense of pride.

None of them inspire the desire to touch and to please.

Perhaps it is the feeling of infatuation or first love or an accumulation of everything he had missed in life so far, but it rends at heart like an eagle’s talons and spurs his eagerness forward.

There is no particular, certain explanation for it, but it is, at the very least, enough of explanation for their current state.

Hands placed upon on a desk, the light tremble of thighs as they rest spread upon the wood, and pants and undergarments discarded to the side, that is Ashe’s current state. On his own, his head is bent—black-rimmed glasses slipping forward, almost falling, and fogging—between Ashe’s thighs. His normally gloved hands are upon the other’s thighs, steadying them, and the perspiration coats his hands slightly.

It should disgust him perhaps; he is not used to this much contact, especially of the nature of their current activities, but it doesn’t.

Instead, he is painfully hard, and it strains at the cloth of his pants. It is not a new sensation—natural bodily functions are not all too different from ones prompted by emotion—but the eagerness is. Even with the natural nervousness that his greenness brings, he wants to please and to listen to the slight noises that Ashe makes—the light huffs of breath drawn out by exertion and the moments when he whispers softly, notes interrupting and breaking.

He is not all too good really, but he hopes his efforts are acceptable, or perhaps even decent, even with his own mistakes.

There is a yelp as his teeth graze the flesh of Ashe’s erection—too quick and too hard to be any pleasure but not damaging enough to end their current session. His hand strokes the other’s inner thigh as a silent apology, and he feels Ashe’s hands comb through his hair before tightening, not enough to hurt or to damage the roots of his hair but enough to guide him.

Ashe is not all too experienced either, but Byleth appreciates the sentiment, nonetheless.

He is sloppy, both in a literal and figurative sense, but he tries.

He moves his mouth downward, bobbing and careful as to not graze with his teeth again, and his tongue pushes against the bottom of the head and then shaft. He doesn’t particularly want to try swallowing everything—he knows vaguely of that notion and its apparent appeal from the bawdy tavern conversations he has heard during his travels—but he does not want the occasion to be unmemorable either.

While it would be an admittedly rather memorable experience, choking is not an ideal outcome. Ashe is not exceedingly large—not that he has much to compare with besides his own—but they are both overwhelmingly inexperienced when it came to these sorts of matters. He understands the possible consequences—the alarm and noise it would bring from Ashe, the untold embarrassment at discovery, and the potential expulsion and stripping of his position as a teacher.

From what he could summarize from their brief conversations together, Rhea likes him well enough, but fondness could only go so far, especially in scenarios such as this. Furthermore, there is the matter and concern of Seteth.

Perhaps they should have chosen a more secluded location than one of the lesser-used classrooms, but it is not like Ashe’s room or his own were available. Ashe’s room is unavailable for obvious reasons. With its location in the dormitories and with its proximation to the other students, it would have been a perilous sort of venture.

He hears enough of Sylvain’s complaints and Ingrid’s lectures to understand how thin the walls are.

His room has much of the same problem. It is too close to the other occupied rooms. Moreover, it would not do for rumors to spread of a student visiting a professor’s quarters at this hour. Ashe is not the only student who roams the monastery at night, and the more curious would always be drawn to the noise and to potential gossip such as this.

Trysts are not an irregular occurrence at the monastery, but one of this nature would certainly bring unwanted interest.

And so, they had settled on this classroom. It is not the most private of places even with the doors closed, but at the very least, it would help with the aftermath, its smell, and the cleanup.

It is the best that they can do anyway.

Byleth moves his hand from its place upon Ashe’s thigh and rubs the pad of his thumb and the length of his forefinger gently against the other’s scrotum before cupping them in his hand and massaging them with his palm and fingers, careful as to not scrape the sensitive skin with his nails. With his other hand, he gently rubs circles into Ashe’s inner thigh and strokes at the flesh and the crease where groin met thigh.

Eventually, he moves onward from simply bobbing. With the tip of tongue, he pushes at the opening of the glans and licks around it, coating it further in spit, before moving downward, trailing both kisses and saliva. He laps at the base—lightly colored hairs tickling his tongue—and presses his fingertips softly into Ashe’s thigh, urging him to lift his body up a bit more. The other complies, tugging lightly at Byleth’s hair as he does so.

His tongue moves from base to the scrotum, wetting the area with his saliva. His hand is slick as he continues his ministrations, and he can feel the press of Ashe’s wet—a mixture of both his own spit and the other’s pre-cum—shaft against his cheek as he works. As he continues, he alternates between licking and swallowing.

Idly, he wonders if he looks silly doing this. He can approximate his own image—mussed and sweaty hair, shallow breathing and hollowed cheeks, and wrinkled clothes from kneeling. It certainly isn’t a dignified or composed appearance, especially with his hat and cloak scattered beside Ashe’s garments, but it worthwhile for the expression Ashe makes, in the moments when Byleth glances upward from his activities.

Flushed skin, the slight scrunch of closed eyes, and the quickened rise and fall of his chest. Alongside the noises—hastened breath and the whispers of his name rather than the “Professor” that he has become used to hearing—it makes for a pleasurable experience and a pleasurable sight, one that he would not mind experiencing more of, perhaps in a different location as well.

Though like with many things, especially with consideration to their current inexperience, it eventually has to come to an end.

It comes when he removes his lips from the glans and his tongue from the opening to breath.

Perhaps he should have expected it, especially with their inexperience, but he had not.

And so, he ends up with fluid—cum—upon his face, upon his glasses, and upon his cravat and shirt and with one horrified Ashe.

Thankfully, however, it had not ended up in his eyes.

He does not need apologies, but he accepts them, nevertheless. He doubts that Ashe would be able to look him in the eyes during class otherwise, with consideration to their relationship and activities anyway.

Oral sex with one’s professor is not something most could come away from with a straight face.

Nonetheless, he also accepts Ashe’s proposal to return the favor with his hand. They are rather short on time for anything else. Though, he would not have minded solving the dilemma later himself, but he appreciates the sincerity of the offer.

He had only wanted to please, and his cloak is enough cover the mess that they have made of his shirt. At least until he made it back to his room. The smell would be harder to explain, but he can figure out something well enough.

At the very least, solving it now would mitigate some of Sothis’s later griping.

But perhaps most importantly, Ashe’s look of concentration is rather endearing.

**Author's Note:**

> I did use less colloquial words for the more risqué sections, but it because I ended up going with a characterization of Byleth that's more analytical. And honestly, I cannot help but include a mention of Lorenz and Linhardt since they're the ones I recruit every playthrough.
> 
> And I ended up going on a more serious route with the Professor/Student aspect since the game has a DLC quest that confirms that while FE3H is set in a more "medieval" time, some modern conventions are still existent. Namely, the weirdness of Byleth being incredibly close with his students and the lampshade they put on it.


End file.
